


In Meiner Seele [Eine Schlacht] || In My Soul [A Fight]

by rachanlv



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Erik is Evil and we like it, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Non-powered AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachanlv/pseuds/rachanlv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A non-powered serial killer!AU. Charles Xavier, a detective that spends almost a year on the case of the serial killer, the victims of whom are the former Nazi high-ranked officers. The killer has a distinctive style- precise and accurate hit, leaving only a carved ‘EL’ on their faces. Eventually, some clues were left at the detective’s door step, courtesy of serial killer himself. Torn between his duty as the officer of the law and astonishment of the killer’s mind, he arrives back to a place where it all started and where the killer shall perform the ‘confession’ to his crimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The main source of inspiration for this fic turned out to be Mein Name by Nachtmahr. That’s what the serial killer performs, thus making his ‘confession’.

_**-** Ich habe Blut an meinen Händen_

_Hab mich schuldig gemacht_

_Ihre Stimmen, nie verenden_

_In meiner Seele, eine Schlacht_

 

=================================================================

 

He follows you. Steps echoing loudly into cool night air; it’s him, you can tell. Somehow you know the sound of his heavy boots against the pavement, the pace, the speed-everything. You know who he is and he is well aware of who the hell you are. You compromise your whereabouts in ten hours or even less, extremely professional. You fumble with your keys, trying to open the door, but you know you can certainly do it much faster. You want him to catch up. And you’re too embarrassed to admit it even to yourself, that the noise you made when he pushed you flat against your own apartment door, face making contact with metal, was a moan. You want this, you want  _him_.

  
=================================================================

 

  
You want him even before the chaotic movement of people around you both and too loud music, all of them listening and oblivious to the words he lays out in the open, it’s a confession, but the drunken crowd just fails to grasp it. It’s a momentum, he sees you watching him, as you trace his movement; he marches back and forth on the stage, illuminated by the lights, his words in flawless German reach your ears. Elbowing your way to the front, you finally stop- there he is- and neither of you had the intention of breaking the eye contact. Surely he knows you from all the news, the newspaper reports and interviews broadcasted practically non-stop, but his intentions in regards to you were never clear. He left you clues, he made sure that only you would notice, and he knew that only you have the wits to figure it all out. You’ve spent countless sleepless nights, putting the pieces of the puzzle together, bit by bit. Secretly, not mentioning any of that to your colleagues; why? It would get you fired, if not worse. You, of all people, were always able to differentiate the ‘good’ and the ‘bad,’ the ‘black’ and ‘white’ of the world, why did your sense of justice falter on you now?

 

  
And so here you are, all these little clues, like colorful threads, had led you, of all places, back to where it all started.

  
=================================================================

 

  
“I know who you are, Erik-” you mutter, words coming out not quite clearly, but you know that he has heard you, if the way he turns you around, in quick and rather violent motion, is anything to go by. There is a hand on your throat now, fingers closing in, cutting off the flow of oxygen just a bit, it’s clear that he has no intention of killing you. Not now at least.   

 

   
“Erik-” you try to gulp down some air, fail, cough instead, “-Lehnsherr, real name Max Eisenhardt.” You look as his face changes, his eyes going wide, and you know you’ve hit the spot. You quickly lick your lips and push further, “Born to Jacob and Edie Eisenhardt, both of them deceased in-” At that point there’s an abrupt and severe lack of air, his fingers closing in, the pressure being hard enough to shut you up. A thought of dying by his hand does not scare you; what the hell’s wrong with you?

 

  
“Remarkable,” he says, his lips curling into some sort of smile, a little bit of teeth showing, eyes wandering all over your face, taking it in, memorizing. “Xavier, what are you?”

  
You can only blink, looking back at him, tears beginning to form in the corner of your eyes, all the result of asphyxia; he loosens his grip at that, but goes on, leaning further into your breathing space.

 

  
You can feel his fingers going up your neck, tracing your jaw line, slowly, methodically, over and over. “It’s fascinating- your mind, the brilliance that it holds, the way you let it go deeper and beyond.” You can feel the leather brushing against your lips, you want to lick it; but then again, the rational thinking kicks in- it would be so easy for you to fight back now, you have a gun, and there is little to no effort that needs to done to get it out and shoot, but you stand still, you want to hear him talk, you want to hear his voice, the baritone, a bit rough with a German accent that pleases your ears, that sends the chills down your spine. Before this night, you have never heard him speak, which was a blessing, but now you’re doomed, cursed- the spell was cast; you won’t be able to forget that voice ever again.

 

  
“The way you bring justice,” he goes on, “the clear-cut line that only you see; it’s thrilling, exhilarating… it makes my blood rush, Xavier.”

 

  
You inhale quickly, sharply through your nose, the words he said, they excite you. His eyes shoot up, abandoning the thorough examination of your lips and he smiles, the smile that reminds you more of a grin than anything else. “Are you afraid?” He looks you in the eye now, emotions barely readable. “Are you afraid of me?”

 

  
“No,” you answer instantly. “Are  _you_  afraid of me?”

 

  
He knows why you’re asking- you can put up a fight with almost any guy, some of them even twice your size and end up triumphant; he knows you have a gun in the holster, waiting for action, he knows all of this but he still says “No.”

 

  
And none of you make a single movement; you just stand there in complete silence. You look and he looks back, his hand on your throat still and you can’t help the uneasy feeling that you’re losing your sanity; it’s shattering to pieces, never to be whole again. You can feel something wet, something obstructing your vision- entangled in your eyelashes- you have to blink it away. Snow. The first December snow, falling down upon you both and you can’t help but look up, a glance at the midnight sky with the falling brilliant-white petals.

 

  
It startles you- the almost gentle way he starts. Although you weren’t sure what had more impact: the unexpected turn of events or the tenderness of it. His lips brush softly on the corner of your own, you can feel his stubble against your clean-shaven face. One, two, three- all of them landing, almost lazily, on your lips now, and on the fourth, he catches your lower lip between his own; taking his time, there is no rush. You aren’t going to shoot him,  _are you_?

 

  
Somewhere between seventh and the eighth, you wonder how he’s still standing there and is not ablaze; doesn’t he feel the fire beneath your skin? Doesn’t he feel the insane thumping of your pulse? He most probably does, it’s just the way he chose to play it. Maybe he’s waiting for you to act, to change the pace, or maybe not, you cannot tell; white noise is the only thing in your head right now. And you catch yourself on the thought that you don’t mind, in fact, you enjoy this slow course of action – your sanity is too damaged to care anyway.

 

  
If someone would happen to pass by, to them you would most likely seem like a couple, enjoying each other, like you have all of the time in the world. The only difference being that you’re an officer of the law and the other guy that had found his way under your trench coat, his hands sneaking against your sides and finding their home on your hips, pushing you against the door and trapping you, leaning with what seems like all his weight, so there’d be nothing else you  _can_  feel, but him- is a serial killer on the loose, that not only the police are searching for, but also the Interpol. Spectacular.   

 

  
After the twelfth, you change the game. And you can’t help but feeling a bit smug, when you feel him ceasing all of his movement, taken aback, when you leap forward, ignoring the soft dance of lips, barely touching, but you deepen the kiss. The look on his face- the way he relishes this moment, tiny changes- his features becoming softer, along with some sort of sigh of relief- and you can’t help it when you eyes flutter close, almost in unison with his. 

 

  
=================================================================

 

  
You both stumble into the dark of your apartments’ entrance hall, tugging and pulling at each other’s clothes, and neither of you seem to be able to tear apart from each other. There is a faint metallic taste in your mouth; he must’ve bit your lip a bit too hard somewhere in-between the kisses. It’s shocking, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.   

 

  
You hear a loud thud behind your back- the poor coat rack did not stand a chance. As you stagger back and back, you can feel the coat hangers beneath your feet, lying there helplessly, and as you reach what seems to be a table, everything that was there –books, reports, an unfinished cup of tea- all come falling down in a swift motion onto the floor and you end up half-laying on the smooth surface, all of the courtesy of Erik Lehnsherr himself. You’re trying to peel off his leather jacket, while enjoying the taste of his skin, your tongue exploring the places right beneath his jaw- you can feel his pulse; he, in return, fights with your belt to get it open, failing to hold in a groan. And you nearly lose your balance and fall flat on the ground, grabbing his shoulders for support –‘support’,  _really_ \- as everything changes and stops in a heartbeat- someone is knocking on your door.

 

  
“Detective Xavier? Detective?” The man on the other end of the door knocks again. “Are you home?”

 

  
You look at him, and he looks at you. He doesn’t move and neither do you. You think you heard a couple of more knocks, but you can’t be certain, the immense roar of blood in your ears is deafening.

 

  
“Detective, if you’re there, please open up! It is an urgent matter!”

 

  
You get off the table, pushing him aside, surprisingly, he does not object, nor does he stop you. On your way to the front door, you desperately try to straighten your clothes, hoping that whoever was behind it, would be oblivious enough not to notice the evident signs- your swollen lips, messy hair and most importantly, your face that would give pretty much everything away. You open the front door and instantly recognize the face before you; it’s Hank McCoy, a young police officer that was assigned to your investigation team not so long ago. He seems like an oblivious type.

 

  
“Mr. Xavier, sir,” he failed to notice anything; apparently. “You are needed at the crime scene, sir!”

 

  
“Crime scene?”

 

  
“Affirmative,” he nods, “Yet another victim of EL, found dead in his residence by one of his staff-”

 

  
And beyond that point you hear nothing. 


	2. Act II

_-158 days ago-_

“Charles..?”

 

Her gentle voice, with a tint of sleepiness and worry, reaches your ears. You cast a quick look and a small smile, just a slight curve of your lips, in her direction, and after a moment, you get back to the papers before you.

 

“It’s way past midnight,” she states, and at that, your attention shifts to the old wooden clock on your wall and your eyebrows lift up; it’s five minutes past three—in the morning. “Sleep, maybe?”

 

And that offer sounds spectacular, because you feel it now; your whole being feels drained all of a sudden, exhausted beyond any limit, the eye-strain killing you. You run a hand through your hair and with a sigh, you rise up and walk towards the sofa, which now looks like a heaven-sent creation. She taps the soft fabric beside her and you take up that invitation, sprawling not quite elegantly on the couch, your head resting on her lap.       

 

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Charles?” she asks, running her fingers through your hair, soothingly.

 

‘She has the touch of an angel’ you think, while basking in this sensation; it’s so calming, you feel at ease. You choose to smile and ignore the question; she did not insist on you answering. You drift off to slumber astonishingly fast.

=================================================================

 

Judging by the golden-lit room, you woke up somewhere around late afternoon. She was no longer there; your apartment seems so quiet without her, lonely and bitter. You yawn, lazily stretching your limbs; and as you turn around in hope of finding a more comfortable position on the couch –that was much softer this morning, you’re sure— you stop. Something was amiss, not quite the same, you just feel it.

 

You feel awake all of a sudden, as you get up and sit motionless on the couch for a couple of seconds, listening, trying to spot any unfamiliar sounds. Nothing out of the ordinary, as it seems. You relax a bit and exhale, letting the trapped air flow free past your lips. And as you were about to make your way to the kitchen, that flowery mess of drapes, that made your eyes sore on regularly basis, were crumpled in a way that annoyed you; if this monstrosity found its way into your home, then it should at least look decent. As you were straightening the cloth, you could have sworn that you saw a man standing at your front door. You immediately rush there; the colorful flowers left in abandon.

 

The door swings wide open and you expect to catch the suspicious person, standing right there–you don’t know what you’ll ask once you’d come face to face—but none of that matters right now. To your disappointment there was no one, just cold wind greeting you, like a slap in a face. You look around once more, just to make sure, hoping that you did not imagine that man after all; and in your peripheral vision you see something to your right, something white. A letter?

 

It sits on your kitchen table for good twenty minutes, and if it had eyes, it would definitely stare at you in an accusation of ‘what are you waiting for?’ You take a sip of tea, too sweet for your taste and cold, only now you realize that it was her tea that she hadn’t finished this morning. But you drink it anyway, drinking tea –cold or hot, doesn’t matter— was your way of thinking, of finding the answers to questions, that exist only in your head.

 

What could be in it?

 

You had similar letters, just like that, with no address or anything that would help you to pinpoint the sender –most of them were hate letters, with occasional threats and promises to drown you in the nearest river— none of which you have taken seriously. Although, you have to admit that some of them were disturbing, especially when the mystery sender had mentioned ‘your blonde gal’ or ‘your fair-haired lady’, some of them even had assumed that she was a member of the world’s most ancient profession, some assumed that she was your wife; only after those, you opted to be more careful, more alert to the things around you and of course, around her. For a couple of months, at least.

There were other letters that were more; you don’t even have a word for it –embarrassing, maybe? Those were what others would call ‘love letters,’ with heated confessions and in-depth details of what the writer would do to you, if given a chance. It’s astonishing that you have secret admirers, given your line of work, but you did not, not even once, feel humbled or excited after reading them. In fact, you felt a bit disgusted, just a slight bit, you don’t know why. Or maybe you do know why, but you choose not to think about it.

 

=================================================================

 

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Repeat as much as needed. You rub your forehead, in a vain attempt to calm the roar of blood thumping in your head, and after a minute, you jump to your feet. Grab the cup with cold tea and then place it back on the table with a loud clang, you don’t feel like drinking it or anything at all, you don’t feel like you have what it takes to think everything through evenly, without haste and white spots of shock dancing before your eyes. You rub the said spots away and get back to that letter- a piece of paper and five photos. Photos that you don’t want to look at, but you have to, and a letter signed by E.L.

 

E.L. – a man you were trying to locate, to hunt down and bring justice straight to his doorstep. A man that had some sort of vendetta against some men, who, as far as you’ve been able to find out, had nothing to pay for with their lives. E.L. was a merciless killer and the fact that this is the third letter from him, makes you shudder with anger; he knows that you haven’t got much on him, that so far your case is as good as no case at all. What are those letters, then? A mockery of sorts? A way for him to rub your nose in your failure and frustration? You are at your boiling point, you can tell, but you reel yourself in; anger is not a solution.

 

You take a look at the letter again; now reading it thoroughly, not skipping straight to the two letters in the bottom corner, curse them. It’s a clue –no, more like evidence— that would give you a rather significant break-through in your case. You re-read it, again and a couple of more times after examining the photographs enclosed with it. The pictures showed a bald, but rather well-fit man in a fancy tuxedo with a young woman hanging on his forearm, as if she feared that he may slip away from her grasp; with champagne in his hand and a smile on his face. The other photos showed a young man, most likely in his early 30’s, with broad shoulders, a strong, distinctive jaw line, and light hair. His look’s fierce, even when looking at the photos you want to look away, it’s too intense, and you can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like to look the man straight in the eye. He’s in a military uniform, you notice seconds later. No doubt that it’s the same man on all of the photos, the resemblance is uncanny.

And as your eyes skip though the details, you realize that what you just saw is something you wish to forget. Eradicate from your brain. Your gaze darts back to the photo of the same man talking to someone and behind him a banner with a symbol – a traitorous equilateral black cross with four arms bent – Third Reich swastika.  

 

=================================================================

 

You don’t remember the last time you arrived so early at work, not to mention the messy hair and the rumpled shirt peeking out of your half-opened trench coat and the E.L’s letter stuffed into your pocket. There are just a few people present at the precinct at this ungodly hour and quite a few give you a look, their eyebrows shooting up in surprise. You smile at some and ignore the rest as you nearly run to your desk. You plop into the old chair and immediately begin searching for the man E.L. gave you photos of. You still can’t wrap your mind around it –why did he send you this? Maybe that letter was supposed to end up in someone else’s hands?

 

You remember the first two letters sent by him, there were just facts -coordinates and a name of the victim. After thoroughly examining the files of his previous two victims, almost nothing worth of value came up. First was Imre von Maur, male, 57 years old, former citizen of Germany, who moved to America in 1954. Based on the profile, he was a barber, had two kids, his wife having died in a car accident- nothing out of the ordinary. The second was about the same age, Carl Eisenhauer, 51, no job, no family. No connection between the two, except for their Germanic names. You’ve spent hours – _days_ \- starring at their photos, re-reading their case files, trying to see what E.L. definitely wanted _you_ to see. And you were the only one who saw his letters, in return. You can’t explain this, there’s simply no logical explanation for your actions that clearly read as infidelity to everything you stand for. Even now, as you sit here, buried in papers and official documents, trying to find any information on the man from the photo with the banner, you are going against not only your own principles, but against the law. Why are you doing this?   

 

You don’t have an answer. You don’t want to think of an answer, not now. You understand that E.L. has to be brought to justice, you truly do. But aside from the detestation churning in your gut for the things he’d done, you can’t help feeling that there is something more behind his motive, that he’s not a lunatic who kills just for fun, it’s something way more complicated than that. Such thinking won’t do _you_ justice, though. You lean back on your chair and close your eyes for a moment. Think, god damn it.   

 

“Detective,” the too familiar voice of the captain calls out to you and you straighten up in an instant, “You’re up early. Did something come up?” He takes a look at your desk –autopsy and colonel reports- all about Carl Eisenhauer and Imre von Maur, and asks, “News regarding E.L?”    

 

It’s like he can read your mind, it’s creepy. Keep calm, keep your face straight and answer as normally as you can, “Unfortunately, no new information on the case, sir.” Short and simple- a better way to conceal your lies.

 

For a second there you thought that you’re done for, that he can read you like an open book, as the silence stretches. He scratches his chin and smiles, the kind of smile that was more polite, than anything close to honest and sincere, and says, “Inform me immediately of any changes; I want to be the first one to know when you have any progress on the case.” With that he retreats to his office and the old oak door shuts behind him.

 

You can finally let go of that breath that you did not even know you were holding. “Yes, of course, you’ll be the first one to know, Mr. Shaw,” you mutter, a bit sarcastically, under your breath. 


	3. Act III

_-106 days ago-_

Five in the morning is too early, way too early for any normal person to be up, let alone sitting in a plane and taking a fourteen hours flight nearly across half of the world. But you didn’t have a choice, especially when the Captain asked you, _specifically you_ , to go to Paris and assist Detective Frost with the case—E.L’s case. E.L had made quite a performance, eliminating two targets at one sitting – one of which was a man from his last letter—and expanding his vendetta beyond the borders of the United States. So now you have to play the role of a consulting detective, and based on well-known premise -- you are not authorized to do anything else _but_ to consult in a foreign country. You may as well leave your badge at home.

 

You arrive at Charles De Gaulle Airport somewhere around noon, after doing some calculations based on difference between time zones that seems about right. You do not have time to check the lovely city; you are ushered into the cab and taken to the hotel immediately.

==================================================================

 

You don’t sleep well. In fact, you have next to no sleep at all, tossing and turning all night. Thinking deep in the night is never a good option, and thinking about the case deep in the night instead of sleeping is even worse. You are aware that you have a meeting in the morning, of which you were informed and thoroughly reminded _two times_ by Detective Frost’s assistant. The trip to the precinct was not a short one, but not even those facts can force you into slumber, or at least into a nap.  

 

It’s not that you’re bothered by something specific, not quite that. You just find it puzzling that you have not received any letters from E.L. as of late. To be more precise – for fifty-two days. You have not received a letter about one of the Paris victims, which is odd. It’s not like you’re disappointed by the lack of communication, heaven forbid, you would prefer to never receive a single letter from him ever again. As one-sided as your communication was, you just feel that something doesn’t add up. Why would E.L. travel all the way to Paris? Is his vendetta something so grim that he has to hunt these men down across the globe?   

 

Maybe a cup of strong coffee will help. Not sleep-wise, certainly—you have abandoned all hope to have a rest tonight. Maybe it will help you think this thoroughly, from a different angle.

 

Downing a second cup of coffee in a row won’t do your heart any good. You know that from experience, but somehow you can’t stop thinking about a third one. Perhaps that third cup of black beverage will be the one to reveal all of the secrets, the one to push you towards a big discovery in the case. Not likely, but it’s worth a shot.

 

==================================================================

 

When someone at the precinct offers you coffee while you’re waiting for Mrs. Frost, you immediately decline, a bit rudely, if the look on the man’s face is anything to go by. The man disappears around the corner before you have a chance to apologize; you plan on finding him afterwards.    

 

Mrs. Frost’s office is stunning in its minimalism. There is nothing out of place, and every single detail seems like it belongs in that exact spot, like the folders and papers neatly piled on her desk, the various achievements lined up the walls, and the lack of cups of unfinished tea on the table – remarkable in its own way.

 

As Mrs. Frost enters the room, you do not fail to see that she’s drop-dead gorgeous, in a light-grey suit that fits her like a glove, with snow-white hair neatly combed back and tied into a knot; but even from afar you feel a cold and detached vibe, and when your eyes meet, you know for certain- this cooperation would have quite a few bumps on the road.

 

She asks – you answer, she asks – you answer; the conversation seems more like an interrogation and mutual collaboration seems rather dysfunctional. She seems to be keen on knowing every single detail, even the tiniest ones, regardless that she has E.L’s case file spread in front of her and basically, all you do now is retelling what’s written there. Your patience is not limitless and after the twentieth question, and you riposte with a question of your own.

 

‘Mrs. Frost, with all due respect, I believe you already know the answers to your questions. They’re written in the file that happens to be right on your desk. So why am I retelling you the whole case?’

 

‘Indeed, why?’ she closes the said file and looks you straight in the eye, ‘but you see… I prefer to hear it from you. To be honest, I’m waiting for when you’re done ‘retelling’ to give me more valuable insight.’

 

‘Pardon?’

 

‘Your personal insight, Mr. Xavier. Your ideas, your hunches… I know this,‘ She takes the folder in her hand, ‘in and out, reading this again will lead me nowhere, just to a horrible headache at best. But you know what will get me to where I want?’

 

You say nothing, and she takes your silence as a cue to continue: ‘ _You_ will take me there. I need you and your mind, Detective, not dry facts printed on the paper. Fresh ideas, crazy ideas—anything you have to offer.’    

 

You can’t help but smile at that, and when she smiles in return you have a feeling that there won’t be a single bump on your road.

 

==================================================================

 

The next morning flies by in an instant: you wake up, shave, have a conversation (if one could call one-sided shouting a conversation) with your sister, she seems very upset –reasonably so—you haven’t called her for two days and she was worried sick. You had apologized, got shouted at a bit more, and she hung up after thoroughly informing you that you were an ass. After such a pleasant chat, you see that you don’t have time for breakfast and with a mutter of ‘reasonable enough’, you put on your jacket and leave. 

 

Ten minutes past midnight, you quietly close the door to Detective Frost’s office, having had a very thorough and detailed analysis of every piece of evidence you both have on E.L. That brainstorming may eventually lead you both to something useful. She doesn’t know about your secret letters and photographs, but sometimes, just for a fraction of second, you feel as if she’s reading your mind, that she knows what you’re hiding. You rub your eyes and chase these absurd thoughts away.

 

On your way down the hall you spot the very same man that offered you coffee the other day. You have an amazing memory when it comes to recalling faces, and besides, that face is rather difficult to forget. It seems that he remembers you too, if his expression is anything to go by.

 

“Hi,” you state bluntly, “Nice to meet you. I’m Charles, Charles X-“

 

“Charles Francis Xavier,” he finishes the introduction for you, “The detective from United States, I know. Pleasure, I’m Az.”

 

After a couple of stunned seconds, you shake the hand offered to you and go on, “Right, yes. About the other day, I want to apologize.”

 

“About the coffee thing?” You notice how his face changes, lips curling into a faint smile.

 

“About the coffee thing. First day at the precinct and I didn’t mean to be so rude. There’s a reason why coffee sounded like a dreadful idea back then, believe me.”

 

“How about a different drink then?” A proposition made with your hand still held captive in his and you have mixed feelings about that—both the prolonged hand-holding and the offer itself.

 

You hesitate. You have nothing against this man and agreeing to have a drink with him may be beneficial to both parties, but at the same time, something is… off.

 

“Alright, sounds like a plan,” you say regardless.

 

==================================================================

 

A drink turns into a couple and gradually escalates to numbers that you can’t show on both of your hands. The place is too posh for you tastes, but nevertheless, you can say that the time was well-spent in Az’s great company. You did have a few moments of misunderstandings though, his thick Russian accent—the one that emerges only when he’s drunk—made listening to his stories a bit tricky.  But it’s not that bad, once you get used it.

 

You part at four in the morning, with Az promising you the most spectacular tour around the city tomorrow. You nod, although you are not sure about the whole ‘tomorrow’ thing.

 

You come back to your hotel room only to find it thrashed and every inch of it turned upside down. You stand stone-still, eyes wide with shock and confusion, letting the situation before your eyes sink in. It isn’t long before you hear a loud clang coming from your bedroom and you rush there immediately.

 

You reach the bedroom, open fast the door and spot the culprit red-handed. He stops dead in his tracks and you falter for a moment –he’s wearing a _suit,_ with no mask, just pitch-black sunglasses covering his eyes. He takes your hesitation as an opportunity and dashes right at you, knocking you on the floor with tremendous force that leaves you gasping for air. As much pain as you’re in at the moment, you try to ignore it as you grab the intruder’s ankle and send him falling straight to the floor with you. One punch follows another, and his sunglasses fall off—broken. He breaks your lip in turn and somehow you end up being pinned. You feel blood running down your brow, and the treacherous red fluid burns as it reaches your eye and you involuntarily hiss and stop fighting just for an instant, and it’s enough for him to grab something from his pocket and hit you with it.

 

You let go and the man runs for it, leaving you bleeding on the ground. You feel your consciousness slipping away, and you try to fight it, hold on to it, but the moment you rise up, everything around you spins and swirls and you end up on the ground again.


End file.
